Sam pointedly ignores his brother and focuses on shovelling the snow off the driveway. He seems to revel in the routine domesticity that Missouri has allowed him to adopt as his own, no matter how temporary it might be.

Dean has let Sam indulge his need for normalcy for months now, sitting on hands that twitch to wield guns and bows and flourish crucifixes. His ass has been itching to settle down behind the wheel and feel the Impala rock and roll and roar at his command. He wants to watch the miles roll by, but he's been patient and understanding - until now.

"You know we have to move on eventually. There are jobs out there which need that special Winchester touch."

His own personal project, a pale manila folder stuffed with newspaper clippings and smeared, crumpled photocopies, lies hidden beneath their mattress, but Dean still sees its gruesome contents everywhere he looks. He needs to act.

"I'm only asking for the one weekend in Vegas, just enough to cover us for the basics for the next few months. Hell, think of it as Freaky Finals if it makes you feel better - a chance to use all your new tricks in a working environment without the usual danger of beheading, possession or evisceration. Make the little white ball land in the sweet spot on the wheel sixteen times in a row and watch the croupier freak; make the dice dance jigs the length of the table."

He doesn't let up for a week.

~~~~~~~

"Dude…"

For what seems like the hundredth time in the last five minutes, Dean lifts a neat bundle of notes and riffles through it with his thumb, breathing in the scent of more cash than he's ever held before.

"Fifteen thousand dollars, Sammy. This is great! I don’t even care that they barred us from every casino on the strip for the rest of our lives. That was so much fun! The looks on those guys' faces when it just kept landing on red? Priceless."

The smile Sam's wearing looks plastic, but Dean's too buzzed to notice. He doesn't realise anything's wrong until his brother grabs the small leather holdall stuffed with cash and then swipes his favourite bundle too.

He's still standing, open-mouthed and flat-footed, when his brain finally registers what his eyes are actually seeing. It's like some hideous nightmare.

By the time he moves, it's too late.

Almost fifteen thousand dollars of his - theirs - the casino's - money is nestled at the bottom of a Goodwill charity bucket, and Sam is clutching a measly handful of notes.

"This will see us through to New Year. It should even get us back up to Iowa for that 'Children of the Corn' pagan sacrifice thing you figured out last week."

Dean is still staring at the bucket.

"Sammy… Are you insane?"

Sam lets himself be manhandled over to and up against the closest wall and gazes solemnly at Dean as he rants for a while. When Dean pauses for breath, he finally speaks.